


Gesso

by swat117



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: All About David, Backstory, Husbands, M/M, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, art talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24464203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swat117/pseuds/swat117
Summary: The painting is arresting. A small-scale Helen Frankenthaler meets mixed media. Watery, bright colors bleed over textured fibers. Sand, maybe clay—he can’t tell from this distance—is mixed into some of the paints, lifting them off the canvas. His heart beats a familiar, forgotten thump.A tale of David and art.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 93
Kudos: 245





	Gesso

**Author's Note:**

> What was it it whispered? I know not well myself;  
> Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun  
> \- Robert Frost

David is on a quarterly, routine vendor visit for the store when he spots it—a painting he’d either previously missed or perhaps one that hadn’t been there before. It must be the latter; he would have noticed it.

“Is that—” he starts before he even fully forms the thought. “Sorry. Um, whose is that?”

The painting is arresting. A small-scale Helen Frankenthaler meets mixed media. Watery, bright colors bleed over textured fibers. Sand, maybe clay—he can’t tell from this distance—is mixed into some of the paints, lifting them off the canvas. His heart beats a familiar, forgotten thump.

A few blots of canary and lime are shrouded in an aqua border. He feels cold spring water on his hands and tastes grass cuttings. They are inside, but his cheek is hot like it’s in the line of some sun. He’s tearing up a little.

Discovery.

*

David grew up with great art in the house. He walked past it every day but never logged the subconscious impact of living daily amidst genius. The Basquiat in the bathroom, the Lewis in the living room, the Haring in the hall. Leave it to his mother to have intended those alliterative placements, rendering his foundational aesthetic basically an inside joke.

Aged nine, his mother begins toting him around to her Women in the Arts functions. He was dragged to AGO, VAG, LACMA, NGA, NACT, the Louvre, the National Gallery, the Met. At the time, he was just excited to spend an afternoon with her. Now, he wonders what his mom got out of bringing him along. Humanizing herself? Proving she could have both a career and a family? She dressed him up like a little recluse author, all waistcoat and ascot, and quizzed him on trivia so, at the drop of a hat, he had an insightful comment or age-beyond-years quip for the older ladies in the group. Child as prop. He’s not mad about it though; he enjoyed the education.

That ends, and he’s off to boarding school. He walks the old halls filled with framed faces of school founders painted by nameless portraitists, all skill and no style. Late into the night, he reads _The Andy Warhol Diaries_. He chops his hair at a blunt angle and dyes it blond to the great amusement and punch line of the rest of the class.

August, the summer after second year, his parents arrange for him to stay with their friends for a month in East Hampton as they will be away from the house and hate the thought of him alone at home with only the staff for company. Alexis is headed off to the West Coast for some debutant ball, or was it Burning Man? He wonders, can he just go with her? But even at 10 she had perfected, _Ew, David. No._

The sprawling estate where he stays has cottages sprinkled around the property, and he has a whole one to himself. Hilarious, he thinks, that his parents thought he would have more company there than at home. At least at home he had Adelina. On the upside, the grounds are virtually a private sculpture garden, his own personal Storm King. There’s a Max Bill, an Anthony Gormley, and a sprawling Richard Serra you can walk right into the middle of, blocking out everything but sky. They were his friends that summer.

He takes two years of advance placement Art History and gets in return a comprehensive bibliography to back up the exposure of his past. His taste shifts, from pop art pablum to the illusive monochrome of abstract expressionism, like Franz Kline. He starts to dress like the paintings.

At twenty, he takes a trip to the Tate Modern in London. Olafur Eliasson’s Weather Project is premiering, and he’s been invited by the daughter of some low-level peerage to the opening night gala. Lord Somebody’s second daughter, 204th in line for the throne. He has nothing else to do, so he hops on a plane.

Inside the museum, a gigantic amber sun reigns over the city's elite as they snack on blinis and drink Veuve. The light from Eliasson’s artificial star casts the bourgeoisie in a neutralizing shadow. He looks up into the mirror mounted on the museum ceiling and finds himself, a small dot in the reflective sky. David has never felt particularly seen. In a sea of identical spots gazing at the same installed horizon, the homogeneity is a comfort. The exhibition is mesmerizing. In the presence of great beauty, everyone is the same.

What he feels on the bank of the Thames, October 2003, is an inchoate inspiration. He traces his first gallery back to that night.

Alexis is, coincidentally, in Windsor with Princess Beatrice that weekend, so he stops in to have tea and talk about the overcast sky. Prince Harry is there too. David swears he was giving him the signal but finds out later her whole trip was a front for a secret affair with the royal. _Of course_ it was.

When he gets back to New York on Monday, the first thing he does is call his dad's realtor.

 _What an acute pastime this will be for you,_ his mother says over the line when he tells her. He should have seen the signs.

*

Momentarily sidelined by the shock of his recognition, David comes back to himself, and to Marnie’s excited reply.

“The painting? My daughter’s. Do you like it?” Marnie is beaming. “She’s off at grad school in Rhode Island. We’re so proud of her.”

“Is it for sale?” He says, again without even registering the thought.

Marnie’s eyes go wide, and once the shock fades, she’s smiling again. “Oh! For the store?” A fair assumption, and a good excuse. Did he need an excuse?

“Yes. For the store.”

“I’ll ask. How nice! I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

“Great. We’re starting to expand into art.” What the fuck?

“That’s wonderful, David. Another great idea.”

If only she knew… “Well.” He has to get out of here before he promises something else that he can’t live up to. “It was nice to see you, as always.” He moves to shake Marnie’s hand.

“Oh David,” She hugs him instead. “I love our little visits. I’ll pop by the store soon. And I’ll call you when I hear back from my daughter. Give my love to Patrick?”

The conversation must go on as she walks him out to his car, but he's deaf to it.

The drive back to Schitt’s Creek is productive, and David’s thoughts fly by faster than the speed limit. They sell so many local crafts at the store, thoughtful handmade goods—why had visual art never entered the picture? It seems like huge blind spot now. Then again, we see what we choose to.

From there, the plan writes itself. Phase one, a call for local submissions. Fact finding. He’ll have to figure out what shelves to clear to make some wall space for hanging, but it’s doable. Phase two, he’ll ask Twyla to use the café as a pop-up gallery space. Feature someone new every month and hang their work around the restaurant. Host an “Evening with the Artist” over wine. (Finally, a party worth David’s attendance.) Phase three, once he has a working list of talent, has established his artistic authority in the community, they’ll announce a new space opening: a dedicated Rose Gallery.

He can’t wait to tell Patrick about it.

*

David’s galleried past is not some dirty little secret he kept from Patrick. Early on he’d explained his parents’ hand in his presumed successes. He hadn’t wanted to, not so soon in their working relationship. But, as Stevie knew, it seemed safest for Patrick to hear the story from him first.

The reaction was Predictable Brewer.

“They did you a disservice, David,” he had said, serious, like he was offended on David’s behalf. “This store would be nothing without your vision, and what you’ve given to it isn’t quantifiable by a number, like how much I’m able to fund. I’m sure your galleries were the same way.”

“So you’re not running for the hills, then?” David couldn’t help but ask.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I’ve already made some concessions more troubling than ‘my business partner can’t file a T4A.’ ”

After that, it never really came up again.

*

“Babe,” David says, walking into the Apothecary and around the register to hug Patrick from behind. He’s hunched over his laptop looking very cute and very focused. “I have news."

“Did you touch the deductibles tab on our expense spreadsheet?” Patrick says without a greeting.

“Mmm,” David hums, kissing down the back of his husband’s neck. “I added a receipt, yeah.”

“Okay, you can’t just—” Patrick is pulling away from the embrace, turning around, steadying him by the shoulders. “Could you stop that for a second and listen to me?"

David pouts. “Mood killer.”

“David, we’re at work. There’s no mood to kill. Plus, now I’m going to have to work extra tonight since you broke the formula in this Excel.”

“Oops,” he says, even though he doesn’t really see the big deal. Just retype it.

“Yeah, oops, David. Oops, this is going to take your devoted husband an hour to undo. How you even managed to merge these two cells together at the same time as corrupting the equation string…” Patrick trails off in confused thought as David tries to kiss him again. Having a great idea makes him a bit hot, really. “David! I’m serious. I love you. But, just, leave the business stuff to me? Please? Or it creates more work than is needed.”

Patrick’s pleading look reaches David. Patrick _has_ been working a lot lately. David counts back in his head to the last day Patrick took off. He counts really far back. He can’t remember.

“Sorry—" Patrick thumbs at David’s shoulder. “You said you had news?”

Well, David can’t tell him now, can he? Can’t create more work for Patrick and have a repeat of his first gallery—David’s in name only, carried on the shoulders of another, savvier person. Even worse, those shoulders would be Patrick’s, who would be disgustingly grateful and excited to carry the weight. The most comfortable coattail ride in the history of local business.

“Marnie, she has, um. A new potpourri blend...” he says. “Smells just like the Palme d’Or. Anyway. That’s it. That’s the news.”

“Oh.” If Patrick is suspicious of that transparent attempt, it doesn’t show. He’s back to looking at David with affection. “Great. Always nice to have a new product.”

David hums in absent agreement, twisting away from Patrick and moving to busy himself with refolding the sweaters.

*

David had been so proud of his galleries; that was the worst part. He’d finally stumbled upon something of his own. Something led by his taste and his talent that he could literally hang on the walls. Mounted and framed: This is my vision. This is what makes me special. He had tangible purpose and identity. Whoever he dated, however rich his parents were, this was separate.

What good memories he has of that time are now shared equally with the stigma of his counterfeit success. Forgive him for not wanting to reminisce over a history that, if revisited, would have to be rewritten. Joy colored in ersatz. Triumph pasted over with conspiracy.

Buried were the memories of studio visits, the feeling of being first to witness genius. Memories of the satisfaction in transforming a bare, white room into one full of color and idea. There's still beauty in his life—insert stanza on how he loves his husband—but none of those casual brushes with brilliance a life in the industry provided. Art, on that scale, is not a part David’s days anymore. Now, he looks at it from afar.

He’d felt some of the same inspiration, though, when he’d had the idea for the general store—and some of the same inadequacy too after Patrick pointed out the original holes in his business plan. He knows now that he projected criticism into Patrick words, and he can see how he colored Patrick’s procedural questioning with the memory of his mother’s admission. _And who do you think bought your patrons?_

Patrick tracks him better than anyone, sees the line of David’s insecurity as it snakes and splinters down his spine. He catches it in the act and soothes accordingly. Being seen is terrifying, even after so many years together. On bad days, David has trouble finding Patrick’s reassurance sincere. He doesn’t doubt Patrick's love for him, but he does occasionally doubt Patrick’s patience.

 _Anyone worth knowing is inevitably also going to be exasperating,_ he remembers reading once. At the time, it seemed like a compliment. Now, it seems like an omen.

Maintaining stability is best, David decides. If stability equals stasis, then he is happy to restock the same trusted vendors year after year. He can do with out the art. He has a loving life, a booming business, a resilient relationship. Two can play at alliteration, and at least David is in on the joke this time.

*

Marnie calls back in just a few hours, before David even has the chance to worry about what will happen if Patrick picks up the phone. So, of course Patrick does.

David’s helping a customer and doesn’t even register the ring tone until Patrick is already speaking, all warmth and genuine care for the older woman. “Oh, Marnie! Hi, yeah, David said the visit this morning was great.”

David drops the jar of hand cream he’s holding, startling himself and the customer. Patrick, looking on from the register, furrows his eyebrows in question.

“He’s helping someone at the moment. Can I pass on a message?”

David’s brain short circuits, the only lucid thought: intercept. “I’ll talk to her!” He blurts, abandoning the customer and rushing over to the phone.

Patrick looks like he’s bracing for impact as David slides around the barrier. “Oh uh, actually, here he is? Yeah, you too. Nice to talk. Here’s David.” Patrick hands him the phone with silent apprehension, then heads over to the abandoned client.

“Hi Marnie, hi.” David greets her, ducking into the back room.

“David, great news. Chloe, my daughter, says it’s yours. She sent me a link to her portfolio with some other work as well. If you want I can forward it to you? I should just connect you two anyway, so you can work out the details."

“Oh great. Mmm, wonderful,” he vaguely responds. He can see Patrick trying to eavesdrop through the break in the curtain.

“I want to come by and see the store anyway, so how about I drop it off this weekend?”

“Weekend, so soon!” He can find a way to explain it to Patrick by then, right? “I mean… of course, great! That sounds great.” Well, at least it’s good to know he still has absolutely no chill.

“Okay well, it sounds like you boys are busy. I’ll leave you to it. See you in a few days, David!”

He says goodbye, pads back into the main room, docks the receiver. Despite the shuffle, the woman he was helping is making a purchase. Thank god for Patrick, who rings her up while also shooting David furtive glances as he pretends to straighten another pristine display.

“Are you okay?” Patrick asks once the woman has left.

“What? Why?” That’ll put him off the scent.

“Well, that call was—how to put it—incredibly tense? And you dropped that jar earlier, and sort of just… ran away from helping that woman? Ring any bells?”

“You know me, so clumsy.”

“Do I? Are you?”

“I know I told you about that time at Drew Barrymore's New Years Eve party when I knocked over the Champagne tower. I can’t show my face with _any_ of the Charlie’s Angels anymore.” Reboot included. “Don’t kick me while I’m down.”

The memory of that story is enough to make Patrick bite his lip in suppressed laughter and pull David in for an easy kiss. “Okay, if you say so."

Mercifully, the questioning ends there.

*

David takes Patrick to the Getty Museum while they are in LA to visit his parents in the first year of their marriage. He thinks it's a good enough blend of art and scenery that anyone can enjoy it. The view of the coast from the summit is breathtaking, the tram ride up is twee, the food is… not great, but Patrick always packs him a snack anyway.

Patrick lets David drag him around on a tour, and David does his best impression of a haughty museum director, mixing fact and fiction as he talks his husband through the W-wing galleries.

“Van Gogh painted this in the psych ward.” They are standing in front of the famous violet flowers. Patrick says he’s never seen a van Gogh in person before. “Historians think he was sending a message. Irises represent hope. If I keep painting,” David’s whispering now, into Patrick’s ear from behind, all drama. "Maybe they’ll let me out of here.”

Patrick's light laugh is all in the shoulders. “That’s disturbing,” Patrick says. “Is it true?"

“Mmm, which part?”

Patrick's head follows his eyes, rolling around to look at David. “How am I going to learn about this stuff if you’re making it all up?"

"Vince isn’t going to come out of the canvas and tell you what he meant. Art is in what you see.”

“So you’re telling me there isn’t a right answer to ‘what does this painting mean?’ ”

"As always, mine is the right answer, obviously.” All he receives in reply is another eye roll. “But really. Just tell me, what do _you_ see?”

“You don’t have to humor me. I’m fine with admitting you’re better at art.”

“I have more practice. More exposure. And lucky for you, you have me. Now.” He places a hand on each of Patrick’s shoulders and faces him towards the canvas. "Look.” Patrick sighs but plays along. Thirty seconds pass before David speaks again. “What is this a painting of?”

Patrick looks at him as if a trick is being played. “Flowers?”

"Mmm, great start.”

“It _is_ a painting of flowers, so, fuck you.” David squeezes Patrick’s bicep in apology and encouragement. “Blue and purple ones. But a few red in the back. One white iris on the left side.”

“And?”

“It’s nature, being outside. It seems like, maybe, wind was blowing in the garden, moving the leaves and that grass in the back there. So, movement? And, growing? Growth?”

“Why paint that?”

He watches Patrick take a real pause to consider. “I can understand how he felt. How nice it was to observe the flowers and just be. Like, when I hike? I’m not always thinking about anything specific, but I'm held up by it. Nature.”

“Um. Good,” he says, and hopes Patrick doesn’t hear the break in his voice.

“So, is that what it means?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t buy it. Not from you.”

“Is there a 'correct' reason we’re together?"

“That whole exercise was just a round-about way to get me to compliment you? You could have just asked.”

“No—I mean, yes. Please do. Anytime. But, no. Like, I can list how we are compatible and how we’re not. How I’m attracted to you, our shared experiences. But what comes out on top? Why do all those things add up to this?"

There’s a long silence. Was that too much? David watches him process. Then Patrick says, voice soft, just: “David.”

“What?”

Patrick looks… kind of emotional? "David, that’s really beautiful."

"Ugh, get off of me,” David says, even though he’s the one who’s holding Patrick tightly at the waist.

They move to sit outside in the garden, munching dried fruit and to-go packaged charcuterie. Neck a bit next to an Alexander Calder.

"I think.” Patrick says between planting a kiss on David’s throat. "I have a passion.” Jawline. "For your passion.” Mouth.

"That’s a terrible line,” David says to Patrick’s tongue.

Patrick pulls away, and that was not what David was intending. There’s a glint in his eye. "But is it working?”

Obviously.

Between their usual laughter in bed that night, there is also a focus, an intensity to Patrick that cuts David open. Patrick already knows him better than anyone, but he looks at David like he’s figuring out something new.

“What? What are you looking at? It’s creepy.” David covers Patrick’s face with his hand, blocking the view. If he can’t get out of the situation, he can tease him, at least.

Patrick licks the palm of his hand until David pulls away. “You’re going to be embarrassed if I tell you,” Patrick says, moving from his hovering spot over David’s chest to finally, charitably, lie down at his side, tucking his head into the cavity of David’s shoulder and neck.

“Well now you have to tell me. An unknown like that will paralyze me for months.”

Patrick’s words are intentional as they march out of his mouth. "I was a little jealous earlier at the gallery. The way you looked at the art was so careful and perceptive, so loving."

“Why would that be embarrassing to _me_?”

“You…” Patrick pauses to ground a hand on David’s bare thigh. “You—while I was...” He runs the hand a touch higher up. “You were just looking at me the same way.”

David is grateful for the darkness that hid his blush.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Patrick whispers, breath landing on David’s collarbone.

David is silent. He’s never been a good liar. In that moment, doesn’t need to be.

*

After Marnie’s call, David makes it through to the end of the workday by rearranging the candle scents in alphabetical order and then rearranging them back again because the alphabet did not correlate to the grey ombre goals he originally envisioned.

They close up the store, and David is still a wired mess. Worse, it’s Patrick’s turn to pick the movie tonight, so any chance David had at distracting himself with a few hours of tooth-rotting romance is gone.

Patrick is on a documentary kick. This is upsetting to David for obvious reasons, but he’s trying to be supportive. They’d watch a 30-hour Ken Burns anthology on the history of concrete if his husband had his way. Thankfully, he doesn’t—he’s promised David tonight’s entertainment would fall into one of three pre-approved categories: celebrity tell-all, culinary travelogue, and auteur exploration.

Which is how they end up watching an episode of Abstract on Netflix and why David spends forty-five silent, rapt minutes white-knuckling the arm of the couch listening to none other than the Weather Project’s own Olafur Eliasson explain his creative process.

They finally make it to the end of the episode. _Depending on where you are, the quality of the daylight is different,_ the TV voice says. Eliasson holds up a sheet of paper to the screen. In Berlin, bright blue and white light is reflected. A sheet of paper in LA, the light turns a muted, sunny taupe. Reykjavik. Honolulu. Bogota. Puebla. Tel Aviv. Yerevan. Cape Town. All different combinations of undertone and intensity. David agrees. He’s been to all these places, seen the light himself. It was different. _Once you realize that reality is actually relative, it is more likely to also change._

New York in the winter would be a uniform stony blue, varied light not able to make it in past the towering buildings or clouded sky. Schitt’s Creek in the summer, a bouncy sapphire mingling with dusty linen whites, as though Patrick and this town have turned up the saturation.

The screen goes black, and the credits start to roll.

Could it be as simple as that? Now is not then, here is not there? For the second time in his life, revelation comes at the hand of an Icelandic sculptor.

When David had told Patrick about his galleries, he left one part of the story out: the beginning. He left out the inspiration. Facing his artistic motivations, in the face of the eventual fraud, seemed like its own brand of lie. With such a disappointing end, what use was the initial spark? David waxing poetic about a giant orange sun hanging in a repurposed factory all those years ago seems like the naive ramblings of an adolescent. He was the Emperor and his new clothes were spun on the looms of his parent’s checkbook.

So, yeah, a few other factors might be tied up in how David is acting. Because he remembers all too well what it felt like to be disgraced. What it felt like to have missed the signs and to rearrange confidence into shame. Excuse him for not wanting to remember what it felt like—what it actually _felt like_ —to be that inspired and then that betrayed.

A lot is at stake in admitting he wants it again.

“I acquired a painting today,” David spills as the credits end. Patrick’s face is neutral, tinged with _and?_ “Marnie’s daughter. She painted it.”

David sounds manic. That must by why Patrick’s words are so careful when he speaks. “Okay. This is big news because?"

"Art. I want to sell art. At the store."

Patrick’s mouth forms into considered surprise. “Oh,” A pause. “And you’ve been planning this?"

“Today. I haven’t… It just came up today."

"Is that why Marnie called the store earlier?” Patrick asks, though he must know the answer.

David squints a face of apology. "That is. In fact. Why she called."

“So you lied about the potpourri?”

"I lied about the potpourri,” he says to his hands.

“Hey, David.” Patrick is lifting David’s chin to look him in the eye. “I think it’s a great idea.”

David’s shoulders vacate his ears. The ringing clears out of his head. He didn’t realize how much he needed to hear that said out loud. “Oh thank god,” David breathes out, forgetting to keep it as just a thought in his head.

"Of course I do. What did you think I was going to say?”

“Mmm, let’s see… ‘Oh David, another one of your ill-conceived plans.’ ‘Oh David, always creating more work for me.’ ”

“Oh David,” Patrick mirrors. “You’re a piece of work alright,” he says and pulls David’s head down into his lap. He leans down, plants a kiss from above onto David’s forehead.

You get what you ask for, David thinks. You get the pain, that shame of not feeling good enough when it’s what you’ve always had dominate. You get the support of your partner once you allow it to be freely given. He’ll take the latter, please.

“You know," Patrick hums. "I wouldn’t normally be so bold, but if you’re looking for a lead, I happen to be aware of a local masterpiece.” Patrick moves his thumb and pointer fingers to form a frame around David’s face.

“Do you now? I had no idea you were so entrenched in the local art scene.”

“It was hard to break through, but I think you’ll find that I’ve been on the inside for a while now.”

David grins up at Patrick through the finger-made box. From his view, Patrick is enframed too.

*

The morning after David signed the lease on 470 Broome Street, his first SoHo gallery location, he woke up early, full of nervous energy. He walked the few blocks over from his loft, opened the door with his new keys for the first time, and stepped inside. The empty space was around 1,000 sq. ft., open plan, industrial finishings, and large windows facing out onto the street. The concrete walls made an echo of his footsteps as he paced around. There were remnants of the previous tenant—a few half-installed shelves on one wall and a broom resting in the corner (which David found ironic because clearly no one had swept up in here before leaving). There was a single, random chair in the middle of the room.

Saturday morning light in New York is specific, unique to that of any other time or day of the week. Maybe it’s the calm of the city as everyone sleeps in or the lack of early morning delivery and garbage trucks rattling around, but it feels as if the sunrays reach farther than normally allowed. It makes the city feel more possible than usual, more approachable. David felt full of that possibility and eager to prove himself.

But he was suddenly preoccupied. Where should he put the front desk? He picked up the chair and moved it to one end of the room. No, too much depth between there and the door. He moved the chair closer to the entrance, but, no, that blocked the flow. He set the chair back in the center of the room and sat down, looked out into his vacant, fledgling kingdom.

Fourteen years later, he walks into the empty space of the general store. Daylight bounces off the mixed-wood floors. He’s still a little high, so that could be why his ears are ringing. Or perhaps the reality of his plan is finally setting in. To dream is one thing, to act is another.

Support, the last time he opened up shop, had been an assumption: his father’s money, his mother’s Rolodex, Rose Video’s lawyers and accountants and marketers, because no one believed David could do it alone. This time, support won’t arrive when someone else thinks he needs it but because he is brave enough to ask for it himself.

He sits down, pulls the business card from his pocket marked _PB_ on one side with contact information on the other. He takes out his phone, taps in the number, and dials.

**Author's Note:**

> A selected index: [The Weather Project](https://olafureliasson.net/archive/artwork/WEK101003/the-weather-project%E2%80%9D%20rel=) | [ Helen Frankenthaler](https://www.frankenthalerfoundation.org/artworks/paintings) | [ Richard Serra](https://static01.nyt.com/images/2007/05/31/arts/01serr.large3.jpg?quality=75&auto=webp&disable=upscale%E2%80%9D%20rel=%E2%80%9Cnofollow) | [Franz Klein](https://www.moma.org/artists/3148#works%E2%80%9D%20rel=%E2%80%9Cnofollow) | [ van Gogh](https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/irises/DgFVFAJo_30MeQ?hl=en&ms=%7B%22x%22%3A0.5%2C%22y%22%3A0.5%2C%22B%22%3A8.954887733764787%2C%22z%22%3A8.954887733764787%2C%22size%22%3A%7B%22width%22%3A1.7565476712106711%2C%22height%22%3A1.237499999999999%7D%7D%E2%80%9D%20rel=%E2%80%9Cnofollow) | [I Know What You Think of Me](https://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/06/15/i-know-what-you-think-of-me/) by Tim Kreider  
> 
> 
> Immeasurable thanks to [ICMezzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ICMezzo/pseuds/ICMezzo) for 1. indoctrinating me into this fandom and 2. a stunning, unparalleled, and patient turn as beta. I'm a bit in awe.
> 
>   
> And hello to all my new friends at the bar! <3


End file.
